


Jeeves and the Unreliable Narrator

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M, Meta, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15023858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, between the lines and behind the scenes.





	Jeeves and the Unreliable Narrator

**Author's Note:**

> This is more a study on possible interpretations of first person narratives than a normal fic. I’ve been meaning to do something like this for a while, and ended up choosing Wodehouse for the project because hid characters and style fit it well. All the books and tales except for one are written by Bertie in-universe, and narrated by him, which brings up questions on how much of what he says is true. All of his storylines make sense following Wodehouse’s-logic of humor, and the bright, zesty, ultimately kind universe he builds. I love that universe, but I wanted to explore it from another angle. 
> 
> If this seems out of character, it’s because it’s not so much about Bertie Wooster written in the books, as the one who _wrote_ the books, if that makes any sense.

 

**10**

 

“Well, Jeeves.” Mr Wooster asks, when Jeeves returns from the kitchen to put aside the empty breakfast tray and returns with the manuscript in hand. He puts aside the newspaper he had made a point of trying to page through and leans forward, the morning sunlight spilling from the windows tinting his attentive face. “What do you think?”

“If I may speak frankly, sir?”

 _When do you not?_ Mr Wooster’s eyes ask him, crinkling at the corners, but waves a gracious hand in permission.

“I find it pleasing, sir.” As anyone would, faced with a book that is nearly an homage. Jeeves is not without his pride, not in the least. “Your use of prose is creative and witty. I dare say it will please the public.”

The tips of Mr Wooster’s tips ears go faintly red. He clears his throat, tugging at the edge of a sleeve of his heliotrope pajamas. A nervous tick; Jeeves has become used to pulling stray lint from all manner of sleeves, sometimes taking a needle to return stray threads to the weave of the fabric.

“I say. I’m glad you think so. You are rather a big part of it, after all. The protagonist, really. You needn’t worry about the public. I’ll change the names, of course. Privacies have to be respected, reputations protected and all that.”

Jeeves does not shrug, finds the movement distasteful in others and unthinkable in himself, but the tilt of his head transmits a similar sentiment to that movement. “I have no complains about my own portrayal. I must admit some doubts at the presence of someone of my position in such a public account, but surely much can be forgiven of a first draft. This is a work of fiction of considerable skill, sir,” Jeeves says, and he does not mean merely the manuscript.

If his master understands, he gives no impression, but then that is rather the point. Mr Wooster’s eyebrows rise into an expression that never fails to make him seem amusingly baffled, his mouth an easy line, ready to be pulled into a smile or a scowl.

"I don't know if I should take that as a compliment. The events are true. I wish that they weren’t, but if a man is surrounded by scheming Aunts and troublesome friends it’s not his fault his life makes a decent plot. Fiction was rather the opposite of the goal.”

"I find that hard to believe, sir. It fulfills all the requirements of the genre and fills the role you have assigned yourself. No one would think it strange from the fictional Mr Wooster.”

A startled chuckle. Still abed, hair sleep-mussled, pale unshaven fuzz on his chin, his presence as a physical reality is undeniable, but not very concrete. This is often the case with Mr Wooster in private, extravagance turned inwards. “Fictional, am I now?”

“To a certain point only, sir.” This is a bold move. Jeeves keeps his voice perfectly even. “This man whose voice you write, has your name, your speech patterns and many of your characteristics, but it is not a faithful portrait. You are a most unreliable narrator, sir.”

Jeeves himself is skillful in the act of omission, in containing emotions and expressions to the highest degree of self-dominion. Perhaps because of that he finds Mr Wooster’s mistruths so curious. On one level, he is a dreadful liar, altogether too open and genuine; on another, he has an intrinsic, seemingly thoughtless awareness of other’s understanding of his person that is rare to find, difficult to discern for the casual observer, even his closest and dearest.

He had seen it from the first without giving it any importance, before systematic study had led him to recognized it for what it is. He sees it now. The slightest of shudders, and the long fingers on the newspaper curl around each other in an imitation of a fighting fist. It is not a violent gesture; something about it brings to mind a wounded creature making itself small

“Once,” he says, voice flat. He swallows. But there are no more words, and he looks down, slowly, lashes dark against his cheeks, does not look up again.

“Perhaps once,” Jeeves concedes, firmly, not unkindly. His hand presses Mr Wooster’s briefly and stays there, touching, holding. “Not anymore, sir.”

 

  

 

**2**

 

“Oh, do shut up and sit down, you useless blight,” Lady Gregson orders.

Bertie shuts up. He sits down. He bites his lips against a rampage of apologies until he tastes blood; he tightens his shoulders and arms and wrists until his fingers stop shacking, and pretends no one saw them tremble. Everyone saw, of course, but he pretends.

It is the summer of ‘15. There is a war on. Tensions are high, and Bertie has just spilled a bottle of fine Merlot over Lieutenant MacArthy’s fine dinner coat, and his Aunt calls him a useless blight in front of thirty peers of the real, two ministers and three officers on leave.

No one disagrees. Most of them look away from the uncomfortable spectacle, Lady Gregson red in the face, her nephew’s hands fluttering around Lieutenant MacArthy’s, who gives the appearance of a good show, all rolling shoulders in a graceful shrug and dimpled smiles.

in his defense, takes the whole thing with decency, if not good grace. He takes of the soiled waistcoat and pulls at his collar discreetly. It is a hot summer, and young Bertram Wooster’s cheeks seem hotter.

Leiutenant MacArthy’s meets Bertie’s eyes with a smile that taunts and cloys and brings to mind similar situations, echoes a hundred honey-sticky words whispered.

Bertie sees him, and trembles, and does not dare look away.

“You’re lucky Bert here is too young, or it would be the army for you, and we can’t have butterfingers in the trenches,” the Lieutenant jests. It is not supposed to be a kindness, though it sounds enough like it that the older among them titter politely, reluctantly amused. Bertie does not know how much he looks like his father when sheepish, proud chin ducked, or how his fetching flush might bring to mind his late mother.

Neither, it must be said, for Lieutenant MacArthy, young and fresh out of training, soon to go to the front, has never met Lord and Lady Yaxley except in the convenient wound their absence left. But what Francis J. MacArthy does know is Bertie, how to tint him rosy with embarrassment, how to drown his words and freeze his actions. This could be Eton; it isn’t, and the horror of it, Brinkley Court besmirched and under silent siege, is clear to one who expects it.

Here is something that Lieutenant MacArthy doesn’t know: Bertie can shoot quite well. No nephew of Dahlia Travers could escape an education in the area. The first time he put down a fox he was seven - he remembers it was, the pretty red fur stained redder. He doesn’t like hunting.

“Quite lucky, right-o,” he agrees, and fights not to fist his hands in the linen napkin.

 

 

 

**5**

 

Out of all his family, it is Angela he is closest to. Out of everyone in the world, probably, although that does not say much. Time and experience have driven them apart. They have lunch together often often, and go on walks to the village close to Blinkley Court, and in London, too, now that Bertie has his own flat. In these moments it’s almost possible to imagine they’re still _AngieandBertie_ , terrors of Brinkley Court, calling each other sweethearts, because sweethearts loved each other and spent their time together, and that was what they both wanted.

And here they are, adults or something close to it. _AngieandBertie_ once more if only for a day.

The day matters. The twenty third birthday of Bertram Wildeforce Wooster, the occasion anyone who knows him knows better than to mention. No gifts, no congratulations. This, walking by the Thames arm-in-arm with his cousin, two fair heads bent close on their way to the pictures, is as much of a celebration as he will allow.

She prods him with a knobby elbow. “So, man about town. Tell me everything.”

“Oh, there’s never a dull moment in the metrop.,” he tells her brightly. “Why, the Drones is a second home, and there are so many plays and concerts, and there is always someone to meet for lunch or dinner or what have you. Only last week Tippy Glossop bet me that I couldn’t nick a policeman’s hat, and was proved sorely mistaken.”

Angie tugs sharply at his arm. “You what?”

“Oh, it was quite easy,” he says, feeling that all things considered a chap is allowed to boast a little of doublecrossing the agents of the law. “There was an an initial attempt that proved difficult - don’t you know, they buckle the things under their chins, so it’s a bother to pull them out, since they're not so keen to part with their headwear.”

“I’d think not.”

“But then a flash of brilliance came to your cousin. If they will not be parted from the hats, and never go out on duty without them, then there is but a place where one is sure to find them.”

Angela put a hand to her face, struggling to seem disapproving. It is no use. He can tell when she’s bitting back one of her loud cackles. “Oh Bertie. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did,” he says proudly. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is be let into the inside of a police station if you stand in front of a statue of Queen Victoria serenading jazz tunes after midnight. I got in, took the hat, Bingo caused a distraction outside and I ran off. I still have the hat, if you want to see it.”

She snorts in the most unladylike fashion Aunt Dahlia despairs of. “I’ll have to see it to believe it, so I’ll hold you to that.”

They walk on. Berties is very fond of talking, and he does it often and with delight, but there is something to be said about strolling down the riverside with one’s cousin in companionable quiet. He would enjoy it even more if he did not spy a growing sobriety in Angela’s countenance.

“Bertie,” she says eventually.

“Yes, Angie?”

“You know you are my favorite cousin, don’t you?”

“Yes, Angie,” he repeats, warier now, but warmer too. Declarations of affection of any sort are to be prized and dearly remembered. “And you’re my oldest chum. From the crib, and probably before.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I’m glad you’ve said so. I think so too. It’s my duty as your cousin, and, arguably more important, as dear old chum, to tell you that I don’t think the lonesome city life is entirely for you.”

“ _Et tu,_ Angela?” he cries out. “Why would you even say that?”

“I say because it’s true,” Angela says, in that steely uncompromising way of hers. She taws, taking in his expression. “I’m not going to suggest matrimony, silly duck. As it happens, I’ve recently sent Florence Craye away from your scent, so you’re welcome.”

“And much obliged,” he says, suppressing a shiver. “Florence Craye, really? Golly, Angie. Remind me to buy you a new hat.”

She pats his arm with a fond, self-satisfied turn of her mouth. Angie, he thinks, is going to be the very best sort of creature, the rare kindly Aunt. This if he ever produces sprog of his own, quite an unlikely prospect.

Well, he reminds himself, he does have a sister with children. But Judith hasn’t visited from India since she first followed her husband there, and her letters are few and distant, so it hardly matters.

“Much obliged. But escaped nuptials or not, it doesn’t change your, as you say, sitch. Your friends are good company, but they have social obligations of their own, as do you, and you live alone. I might not always be able to answer your calls when you’re in a bad way, you know.”

Unlike him, Angela does not mind calling when she is in a bad way. For years now, Bertie has pressed the phone of whatever rented rooms or friend’s house he is staying at to his ear and listens. Everyone, he thinks, should have someone that listen to them rail against injustice and accepts painful confessions. That he does not allow himself the same is neither here nor there.

”And I know you don’t always call.” They book look away from each other at the river, at the high buildings on the other shore. A bell tolls somewhere close, makes the ripples in the water broaden and deepen with the vibrations. “I know you there is much you won’t say. I’ve stopped being angry about it.”

There is a trick to this, one he has mastered. Berties breathes in, counts, counts, breathes out. Angela grips his arm and doesn't say anything. He loves her all the more for that.

“I can take care of myself jolly well,” he says quietly, with careful enunciation. This is as close to being firm as he can manage without coming across as ridiculous, and even that is sometimes too high a standard to achieve. “Most of the time, I can.”

“I know,” Angela says. She nudges him, and they are so entwined that it makes them both stagger, nearly colliding against a pair of aged old women on the way to church. “But a cousin worries.”

 

 

 

 

**3**

 

His literature professors expound more than ever on duty and honor, the fearsome heroes of the Iliad, Shakespeare’s historical plays. There are history seminars than even he can see are full of patriotic spirit. Every week some handful of students enter the War, either by draft or by their own will.

Bertie tries. He tells no one, but on the day of his coming of age he skips lunch and goes alone to the closest army office and presents himself. His drafting process goes no further than the medical evaluation. Flat feet, they say he has, incapable of long marches, and send him back in time to catch the beginning of his afternoon classes, the bells calling students to the halls ringing silver-cold in his head.

There is a war going on, but not even the war will have him. Only the grey Oxford days for Bertram Wooster, knowledge all around but a struggle to reach at the best of times. His friends, scattered through different halls, some in Cambridge, are forever distracted by new loves, bets, exams. He tries to do the same, or at the very least to paint the image that he is doing the same. He must be a better painter than previously known, because no one calls him out on it.

The mornings: trembling hands and too much tea and circles under his eyes. But then, there almost always are circles under his eyes not. Sitting in the coffeehouse close to the dormitory he shares with Bingo and Biffy, notes on his History of Literature lecture open and unread in front of him while he scarfs down breakfast before the first lecture of the day. It is the same thing every day. The waitresses learn his order, how sweet he likes his tea. He supposes they have the time for it, the number of insomniac students being few. Fewer than they should be. The din in the corridors too quiet, the revels too wild, the lecture halls too empty.

Bertie reads the lists of the fallen in the newspapers every morning. Until the day comes when he finds the name he has been looking for. Lieutenant MacArthy, J. Francis, dead in combat. His fingers come away dark from the cheap ink.

He counts, counts, counts, and when he finally breathes it is as a newborn and a castaway, a drowning man taking the first gasp after a long submersion: greedy lungs and numb toes, every bone a heavy anchor.

 

 

 

**6**

 

There is a maid, a Mrs O’Phearson who works for some houses in the building. She comes over three times a week and does the groceries, cleans and irons his clothes. She had been the one to suggest him what cookbooks to use when first he’d tried his hand at cooking. Along with some recommendations from Anatole, it meant he could do some basic dishes, and even, if he wanted to be ambitious, apple pie.

What with school and university and all, Bertie has never actually had a long-term valet before. Well, there was Meadows, but that didn’t last a month. There are some few but firm rules Bertie adheres to in his daily life, and Meadows kept tripping over them. Not out of forgetfulness, as Biffy might occasionally do, and then apologize once he remembers. Meadows had thought it ridiculous, thought him ridiculous, a moral leper, and hadn’t had the good breeding and training to hide it. That he was a sock-stealer to boot was just the tip at the top of the iceberg.

And so, having been left disappointed and sock-less before, he decides to try again, with greater care. There is a whole protocol involved in acquiring a manservant, as there always is with these matters. Some people post adds on newspapers, but those people aren’t Woosters. Word of mouth, he has noticed before, is the preferred channel of those with power. Bertie talks to Angela who talks to Uncle Tom who talks to his valet who talks to whoever runs the Junior Ganymedes club. This is how one acquires the best of the best in service, and how he knows Uncle Tom is worried in his own way.

Bertie would like to say that there is nothing to be worried about, but it’s Uncle Tom, mild and amiable. He has never liked lying to him.

He receives a letter from Junior Ganymede, with a profile and such, and answers back his acceptance in his best calligraphy, signing his name with a flourish. There is a trial period of one week, before a more permanent contract can be arranged, but paging staggeringly large number of letters of recommendation this valet came with, Bertie can’t stifle a certain cautious optimism.

It takes less than a day for his gentleman’s gentleman to manifest on his front door at ten o’clock. Bertie doesn’t know which day of the week it is. At this hour he barely knows right from left. He has to lean on the threshold and squint for a long moment before registering the sight before him.

“What ho,” he says, bemused and slow. “Good morning.”

The person on the doorstep reminds his less of a real man and more of a black and white photo of a bust on one of his Ancient History books. Aurelius, or was it Augustus? Some Emperor cast in marble and interesting angles.

His eyes, the liveliest thing about him, give off an impression of great discernment as they take him in, something Bertie had not previously been aware eyes could do.

He is suddenly, shockingly aware of what he looks like, mustard yellow pajamas and loose house robe and slippers on the wrong feet. Despite what his general appearance suggests, he is not in fact suffering the effects of a night of Bachanal revels. He is somewhat hangover, but mostly suffering the effects of two nights of insomniac piano playing and staring at the walls while playing solitaire on cards for hours on end.

“Good morning, sir,” he says, his voice a ponderous baritone, heavy. Bertie closes his eyes, wavers on his feet. He is so tired. His head feels like what he thinks the inside of a radio looks like, noise caged in a small space until it is reduced to static, and it is a strange relief to hear someone else’s voice.

Bertie blinks, once, twice, three stupid blinks, then springs wakefulness with some alarm. His thoughts go the state of the house, the unmade bed, the music sheets spread out over the sofa, the cards on the floor on uneven lines. He stomps on memories from surprise visits of dorm perfects at Eton berating him. The mantle of authority is his now, but it rests uneasy on his shoulders.

“Well, hullo hullo! I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” He remembers that he’s not to hold out a hand to shake just on time. Instead he nods, inspires himself in Aunt Dahlia’s imperiousness. He suspects it would have had more success if he weren’t currently wearing the frilly pink house robe he’d won from Angela on a staked game of gin rummy. “How d’you do, good fellow?”

“Reginald Jeeves,” the man says, and bows. “At your service, sir. “

 

 

 

**4**

 

In the absence of schoolwork and duties to take on, he lives in and for leisure. Amusement for amusement’s sake. Aunt Agatha would have him become a banker, but in this, if nothing else, he will not bend. He hates numbers with a passion.

Words, however, are different. Nothing so straightforward as loathing or love, for he does so enjoy a clever pun or joke, and well written, thrilling prose is one of his passions. Faced with that, anyone can forgive the times when the right expression right at the tip of his tongue refuses to make itself heard.

From childhood he’d liked writing, but it is at Oxford that the habit of started in earnest, and unlike other whims it doesn’t fade. Possibly because it’s catarsist, or whatsit. In part, no doubt, because paper and pen allow a chap to share himself freely, or in fact to think at all, when otherwise a cohesive train of thoughts might be hard to grasp. There are weeks when he doesn’t rite a word, and others when he goes at it from waking till dinner time, at which point he made his way to the Drones and ate his weight in beef for dinner.

And there is, of course, the question of artistic license. That is to say, there is a reason why the harshest, perhaps the truest of his manuscripts end up in ashes on his hearth. He prefers to paint is life in bright tones, separated into episodes of humorous incidents related in pithy phrases. The texts he keeps are the ones in which in keeps the light-hearted moments and edits away the rest. No one likes Bertie Wooster when he’s not cheerful, least of all Bertie Wooster.

 

 

 

  
**9**

 

  
He likes to remind himself every once in a while that, theoretically, he could live without Jeeves. He’d done it before, after all. People don’t perish just because they don’t wake up to a marvelous breakfast in bed every day, or without perfectly pressed clothes, or for lack of someone to talk to in the evenings.

Not that there is any easy camaraderie at first. Fond of the feudal spirit as he is, Jeeves keeps a constant professional distance, always conscientious of his duty and position, or at least giving the impression of absolute, dignified service. Except, perhaps, on matters of sartorial taste, which he takes more seriously than most Saville Row tailors.

The core of the problem is that Jeeves is brilliant. Without a doubt the most intelligent person he’s ever met, and Drones aside, Bertie had studied in Eton and Oxford, met a number of frightfully bright birds, and none quite compare to Jeeves in raw intellect, in the search for information and the cunning to put it in practice for the best possible outcome.

His wit is drier than the Sahara, and he’s not very kind, really, but he’s extremely capable, which mostly makes up for all the times he leads Bertie through the nose. And Bertie does know when he’s being led around, that Jeeves’ means of ladling his from the soup are not without intentional humor at his expense. Jeeves makes up for it in other ways, more and more as time passes and the Wooster charm works it’s wonders at softening his heart and strengthening his regard.

Because Bertram Wooster has been known to befriend anything than stands still long and gives a modicum of impression of listening to him blather on. His best ability is a certain flair for noticing people - recognizing how people feel and so on. It is helpful, for it allows him to present himself as others expect, when he cannot find it in himself to give more of himself away.

Jeeves is capable, and brilliant, and never anything less than discerning when it comes to the psychology of the individual. He is discrete, always, when after they grow to know each other, when indiscretion becomes welcome, and even after.

He could live without Jeeves. He simply has no interest in considering the very thought of doing so.

 

 

 

 

**8**

 

  
The gardens of Brinkley Court are a lovely sight, with rows of carefully tended flowers blooming and giving the most pleasant scents to the open air. Bertie is rather fond of gardens, and this one in particular. Not even the current sitch. can stop him from enjoying the smashing spring day.

“Not even the current sitch. can stop me from enjoying the smashing spring day,” he says.

There is the sound of steps on the gravel path, then a lighter snapping open. There are certain beazels that a gentleman feel the instinctive impulse to light a cigarette for, but Honoria Glossop is definitely not one of those. Berties doesn’t offer, instead sitting on the edge of the fountain and taking out a lighter and gasper of his own.

“Not a bad day for hunting,” Honoria comments, eyeballing the clear sky above. Standing proudly in riding leathers and tall boots, she cuts a formidable figure among the budding roses and green trellises. A lovely sight in her own way, though he would never in a hundred years dream of telling her that. “I take it you won’t join the party.”

“Rather. I’ll stay here enjoying the gardens, thanks ever so.”

“I’ve never much seen the point in ornamental gardens. Waste of perfectly good open space. All this cultivable land.”

Bertie straightens his spine. They’ve reached this point in so many similar setting before that it has become a point of honor to give a good showing. “Oh, come now. Just because you bullied your family gardeners into it, you can’t expect everyone to give up their prized rose bushes for herbal gardens or vegetable patches.”

“Gardens such as this one have no practical value besides vanity. Unless you count the imposition of one’s power over land and resources as a show of power.“

“A show of power? I say, isn’t that going a bit far? Some pretty flowers never harmed anyone, and you have to consider the estetic of the thing -”

“Aesthetic, I think you mean.”

“That’s the thicket,” he continues undaunted, tapping the excess of ash from his gasper away. “They’re beautiful spaces dedicated to appreciating nature at its finest. What’s not to like?”

Honoria wrinkles her nose and frowns. “You’re mad if you think some camellias bred for a lady’s country contest have anything on the undisturbed habitats of flora in the open wilderness.”

“That’s a question of opinion. But there’s cultural aspect, too. Don’t you know, there’s a fine tradition of country house gardens in this country.”

“So you’ll excuse the perpetuation of unjust structures of power in the name of archaic habits? Shame on you, Wooster.”

This is an odd conversation, continuing in the tone of many in the same vein they had over the years. By the time they had almost failed to escape mutual matrimony twice, coming together to break it off by agreement, Bertie has to concede the truth: that there is a camaraderie between them, a curious kinship based on unspoken understanding and shared hardships.

Now, the fourth time various relatives have seen fit to dictate their nuptials, Bertram Wooster is in the peculiar situation of being Honoria Glossop’s friend as well as her unwilling groom. He’s fairly resigned to it. Being Honoria’s friend involved a great deal of physical activities in inclement weather and more debate than most of his semesters at Oxford all put together.

It is quite fun, actually, but again, not something he will ever tell her.

“Shame on you, Glossop, bullying the poor camellias. Aunt Dahlia was only just talking about using them for the church decorations.”

Honoria only moves her shoulders, a gesture of immense and enviable confidence. They both know there won’t be any marriage, not between them. It had been Honoria Glossop, of all people, who had found him hiding in a gazebo in a garden not unlike this one, dinner jacked discarded and necktie undone as he tried desperately to fill enough air into his lungs. She been been the one to sit on her haunches beside him, deep, assertive voice instructing him to breathe to her count. Perhaps it is not so surprising, considering she is the daughter of a head doctor and quite impressively brilliant in her own right.

Bertie is only tangentially aware of this, but there is a net work of people dedicated to maintaining his bachelorhood. It is easy to forget, between meddling relatives and would-be nuptials, but most of the, has been children together. High society is a cramped little universe, everyone in everyone’s business, all gravitating together for parties and celebrations. They had played games of tag and hide and seek and simon says in the expanses of country house gardens, made bets and wagers, cried and made each other cry, broken bones and promises. And now they break engagements when they are undesired, this is to say, every time Bertie Wooster is involved.

Angela Travers speaks to Tuppy Glossop, who talks to Gussie Fink-Nottle; she writes to Honoria Glossop, who, being improbably good friends with Madeline Basset, passes the matters on to her. Bingo Little is baffled at the idea that anyone might wish to escape matrimony so strongly, but he is also the one with an agreement with the manservants at the Drones to ring him if Bertie Wooster spends more than a week away from the premises. The last time this happened he had found him in his flat, unshaven and with fever-bright eyes, feeding a sweltering fire in the fireplace with severals books’ worth of personal writings.

That had been a good while back. Before Jeeves, that is. She does like Jeeves – they’ve had a brief but interesting conversation on contemporary literature analysis. She likes what he’s done to Bertie. As much as his relatives go on about the need to find someone to mould him, Honoria rather thinks that he needs is someone to be honest with. Presumably he has found that with his manservant.

Better Jeeves than me, she thinks, mind going to Madeleine’s last letter. Honoria will have to answer soon, but it is never a task to speak with Madeleine, either on paper or in person.

Madeleine enjoys blossoms of all kinds. Perhaps Honoria will find a fitting one in Lady Agatha’s garden and steal it away, to press between the pages of her letter. Sweet-smelling lilacs, maybe, or a small sprig of white azaleas.

“I’ll leave you to your flowers, then. Do you think that if I brought you a dead fox your Aunt will think it’s a courting gift?”

Bertie makes a face of disgust. “And get my clothes stained with blood? Jeeves would riot.”

Honoria laughs, deep and hearty. Her friendly slap on the arm almost has him falling into the fountain. “We can’t have that, can we?”

 

 

 

**7**

 

Three months into his employment, Mr Wooster finds Jeeves playing chess against himself in the kitchen. It is late in the evening. He had left Mr Wooster in his bed hours ago, but that meant very little when it came to his bouts of restlessness.

It is the witching hour, the moon high in the sky outside. The murmur of slippers on polished wooden floors is heard long before their arrival.

Mr Wooster cuts a peculiar figure in the doorway, hair wild, horrid robe like the most improbable of kingly mantles slipping down his shoulders. The high angle of his cheekbones casts fey shadows on his features. He gestures at Jeeves to sit when he makes to stand.

His face brightens when he catches sight of the board. That is when Jeeves knows what is to follow, both his inability to stand against that spark of liveliness and his own clever scheme.

“It would not be proper, sir.”

“Pish posh. You need someone to play against, I need to do something before madness sets in for good.” Mr Wooster smiles crookedly. “I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

The matches are predictable. Jeeves wins quickly, each victory a little more spectacular than the other. That is what tells him Mr Wooster is as bored as he is.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir,” he starts, and continues when Mr Wooster nods. “Perhaps this would be more entertaining if there were more at stake than wooden figurines.”

“Jeeves,” Mr Wooster says slowly. “Are you suggesting that we play for wagers?"

Jeeves gives a small cough. “Not as such, sir. But it came to me that perhaps I may have something in my possession that might make an acceptable prize.”

Mr Wooster widens his eyes. “Jeeves, you didn't. My grass green tie? The one that went missing?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Oh, you bally well could. Very well, then. Have it your way.”

An hour and twenty four minutes after, Jeeves lowers his queen, feeling distinctly satisfied for having been defeated. It is a very close thing, possible in great part because Mr Wooster already had a good grasp on Jeeves' strategies, while Jeeves is facing an uncertain opponent.

Jeeves could have won. But he’d wanted to see how the game would develop, how Mr Wooster would look like in the earnest pursuit of calculation, expressive features drawn into a mask of concentration, a keen glint in his eyes.

Now his face is once again transparent with emotion. He glowers at Jeeves and huffs, arms crossed, more disgruntled than any victor should be.

“Checkmate is yours, sir.”

“As if you haven’t gotten the win you wanted. You're a wicked man, Jeeves. Holding my blameless tie hostage like that.”

Jeeves turns his palms slightly upwards, as if to express his lack of responsibility for his actions when faced with such dreadful neckwear. “I'm afraid so, sir.”

“Dash it all, I haven't won a chess game in a decade. A decade! Do you know how bally awful it is to lose to Bingo Little?"

Jeeves barely stops his nose from wrinkling at the thought. His face is not empty enough, for Mr Wooster remarks on it. “Exactly as bad as you think. You’ve made me break character, Jeeves.”

"Indeeed, sir."

There is a rare current of exhilaration running through his blood, a pleasing sensation of mental exercise well done. It has been too long since he has played a proper game of chess, exchanging gossip and companionship with his Uncle Charlie

And beyond that, a different thrill. Mr Wooster meets his gaze and steels his chin, but it is no good; the smile remains and grows despite itself. Jeeves’ mouth twitches.

Behind them there are weeks and weeks of growing acquaintance and acclimatization. Jeeves’ slow compilation of fact and composing of theories, chased by the nagging impression that he’s some vital understanding. Time, too, being cheerfully subjected to a careful study, judgement kept silent beneath his employer’s garrulous habits. His responses tested, reactions considered, interpreted with what he suspects is unnerving accuracy.

Chessboard between them and a long night still ahead, they begin to understand each other.

“I’m definitely keeping the tie. I’ve seem how you eye this robe, but that’s out of the question. It’s a spoil of war – well, a spoil from playing poker with Angela, but that’s much the same thing. I’m very fond of her, but she came out of school a consummate cheater in games of cards.” Jeeves, having worked in a school of noble ladies himself, can concede that much. “The purple socks, however, are open for discussion.”

“Most gracious of you, sir.”

“Hardly. I’m in this to keep the socks. Don't let me win out of a sense of feudal duty, either.”

Jeeves starts reordering the pawns, the bishops, the precious queen.

”I don’t intend to let you win at all, sir,” he says, and Mr Wooster tips back his head and laughs.

 

 

 

 

**1**

 

Bertie thinks of his family but rarely. His parents, warm if busy in life, are long dead, may their souls rest in peace and so on. His sister isn’t dead, but she might as well be, as cruel as the thought is. Growing up, she had been much older, often away at school, generally kind but with little patience for inquisitive little brothers when at home. More than that, he does not like to remember their farewell. Her ship had set sail (or motor, as the case may be) not a week after their parent’s funeral. There is a part of him, forever childish and mean, that hasn’t forgiven her for leaving him behind to the dubious care of aged relatives and indifferent teachers.

That part - that ugly piece of his character, the bits and bobs of Bertie Wooster that never come out - is selfish and angry. Not cruel, but smart enough to recognize cruelty and feel its lash. He forgives most slights, it’s in his nature, for all the good it does him. He’s kind, is Bertie Wooster. That isn’t lie.

The lie is this: his memory isn’t the best but it’s better than he makes it out to be. He doesn’t have an iron backbone, but he isn’t a doormat. He’s selfless, not stupid, and if he likes to play the fool it is because fools have a more amusing time out of life than most, and it suits him to be known as one. It is a compromise, a careful one in place for a long time.

Naturally he tries his best to go without it at first. His parents had always been dutifully proud of his achievements, small as they had been. For a short while, the semester after the car crash, Bertram W. Wooster holds quite a respectable position in the honor roll of his year at Eton. He even holds top place at literature, and wins an award on Biblical knowledge, the last one a consequence of his somewhat morbid interest in the passages the priest had read at the burial.

Mostly he hopes that his aunts would be as interested in him as his parents had been, or at least acknowledge him if he did something right. As that never quite comes to pass, and the only tangible result of his efforts is greater animosity from his fellows and higher expectations from teachers, he puts the heavy aspirations of the scholar aside.

It isn’t even been that difficult. He’d seen enough of his classmates to tell what they wanted and did not want to see, what they liked and how to be likable. And, he tells himself late at night, when the early onset of lifelong insomnia keeps him awake in his narrow schoolboy bed, he isn’t lying, really. Not if he does enjoy their games and pranks, which he does. His friends aren’t the most popular or the most intelligent, but they’re jolly good fun and mostly harmless. They help him get away from MacArthy and his band of high-born bullies, and take the time for try to find his Bible and the flower catalogue he’d compiled with his mother. His belonging never do turn up after they go missing. The awkward teenagers that will one day be the Drones try anyway. He is grateful for that, more than he thinks his friends are aware.

Pretending to be duller than you really are can be quite useful, and more than a little amusing. But the point is that he doesn’t start maliciously. It is a considered decision, but not mean-spirited or light-hearted, for all that on his bitterer moments he thinks of it as a farce, himself as both writer and actor. He’d only wanted to be someone whose company people would seek out, so that perhaps he wouldn’t feel so alone.

It works, after a fashion, but only just. It’s not all a lie, but much of it is a safe, comfortable façade no one bothers to look closely at, and sometimes he finds himself wishing someone would. One person, at least, just the one, to look at his easy smiles and bright, distracting suits and say: I see what you are hiding, I see you. On the few occasions he allows himself to go maudlin, he thinks that’s the closest to a family he’s ever likely to want. 

 

 

 


End file.
